


Traces

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lying in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traces

**Author's Note:**

> Live dangerously. Tell me what you really think, good or bad. I promise I don't go for histrionics or pyrotechnics. 

## Traces

by qwertyuiop

Author's disclaimer: No original characters, no money in writing, no plot and no sex, I have no idea what category or rating it should have, no job, and by Jove, no life either! Just say no!

* * *

Traces 

Every night, as he lay alone in his bed, he listened patiently for the faintest padding of bare feet from below. They would wander about the loft, aimless, sometimes accompanied by soft rustlings of paper, the scrape of books or a cup across a hard surface, one of the tables, or a countertop, perhaps. Soft, even breathing, the rushing pulse of blood through arteries and veins, gurgling sounds of digestive fluids and swallowed saliva; such were the reassuring sounds of life he listened for and cherished, even filtered through the raucous noises of traffic and plumbing and stray beasts, angry voices of other sleepless souls arguing trivial matters left over from the day. 

Always, only the faintest of sounds, or their echoes, whispered upward to him, their source ever considerate of his hyper-awareness, taking elaborate care to avoid jarring the secure cocoon of muted, comforting sounds he drew about himself as a cloak to block away all the louder, harsher noises outside. All little details, inconsequential matters as long as he could still hear the proof of life and its presence beneath him. 

Sometimes, if he'd had another close call during the day, the soft footfalls would circle below for a while, then move tentatively towards the stairs, treading lightly, carefully, on the side nearest the wall to minimize the creaking of dry wooden boards, padding soft and uncertain towards him. At such times, if he remained very still and quiet, like one dead to the world, the sounds of breath and blood and racing pulse would approach with ghostly steps, bringing the warm smell of anxiety and heady musk, mildly herb-scented, to his side. Yet as much as he yearned toward the living heat watching him from the stairs, he held himself back, constrained every impulse to turn to it, for the slightest movement, the faintest reaction to the presence would send it padding back downstairs, fading away to the sanctuary of its own bed, leaving no hint that it had ever been so near, like a wisp of dream-memory. Or perhaps these nocturnal visits were indeed dreams, mere wishful thinking, so infrequent and unreal they seemed in daylight, when the rays of the morning sun slanting through his skylight burnt away the residual traces of warmth he imagined he could feel where the visitor had been. 

But, if he was very lucky, the warmth did not retreat, and even crept closer, closer, until it was crouching by his bed, delicately tracing his features with ghostly fingers that never came close enough to touch him in fact, always stopping just short of physical contact. In such moments, all his world was the slow burning brands above his face, the soft caresses of air currents eddying about fingers so close he might reach out and catch hold of it. 

Willfully, or helplessly, all his awareness would narrow to the living warmth crouched at his side, needing to _know_ it, even as nerves protested the fine fibers of his sheets and clothes burning, abrading flesh without leaving any mark, even as the stink of chemical detergents and old sweat seared in his nostrils as he breathed in the never-harsh scents of the other. 

So he lay waiting still, willing relaxation and unconsciousness, though perhaps that semblance too was a charade that had long lost its meaning. Once, he'd lain with his eyes open, contemplating the swirling motes of dust above him, sparkling in the fey moonlight like so many tiny fireflies, and still, the steps had approached and halted by his bed, watching him, voiceless, only as long as he remained motionless. In the blink of an eye, the presence was gone again, and he thought, how cruel, to leave this cold, this emptiness behind. Always leaving him to drown in the absence of all the life that mattered, leaving him bereft of that passionate almost touch and red warmth against his eyelids and pulse of blood rushing through the living heart...and maybe, should the soft steps return when he felt his courage greater...maybe he could find it in himself to reach out and catch hold of the hand, open his eyes and see the words the lips traced without sound each time, if they spoke of love or forgiveness or trust, if he could himself speak the truth of faith and need and love, if so much could remain between them after all this time. 


End file.
